


Oh Beautiful Town

by Actaeon



Category: Deus Ex: Human Revolution
Genre: Character Study, Fluff, Gen, Post-Game(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-13 10:43:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5704675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Actaeon/pseuds/Actaeon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of the game Jensen returns to the recovering giant that is Sarif Industries. He assumes all will return to normal, but in a way, it certainly doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a small post-game episodic tale that's mostly concentrating on the lifes on different characters. It sort-of uses the Sarif Ending, and at the moment it is utterly incompatible with Mankind Divided. 
> 
> Aw, who am I kidding. This is a lot of good, fuzzy feelings for all involved, with a dash of snark and action.

It had all started innocently enough, like most things did at Sarif Industries. 

“You really should move out of that Chiron building, Jensen,” Malik said, sipping on her steaming hot coffee while stretching her legs below the table, a copy of the Picus Daily Standard in her hands. The recent turn of events had brought a lot more work for the pilot than usual, and downtimes like these were rare. Spending them with a friendly face was even more rare; usually, there was barely enough time for a snack in the cockpit of her bird before she was sent off to another mission. 

Not that she’d have it any other way, really.

Jensen acknowledged her words with a hum, munching absent-mindedly on an energy bar. He had that look on his face again, she mused, even though his shades obscured much of his face. She didn’t like it. That look was unusually moody, even for the highly augmented man, and led to frequent existential questions via infolink at three AM. 

To avoid this fate, Malik kicked his mechanical shin, knowing full well that Jensen wouldn't feel the pain, but certainly the impact of her well-placed attack. 

“Ouch,” he said automatically, blinking at her. “Uh. What was that?”

“I said, move out of the Chiron building. It doesn't do you any good on the long run. Too many memories, most of them bad... That's really not the best base of operation for a healthy future.”  
She didn't mention all of Megan’s things, still packed into countless boxes and strewn across the flat: memories of a long lived lie that ended in painful betrayal. 

Jensen chuckled drily, balling the wrapper up in his fist and tossing it easily into the waste bin. He probably practiced that. “And where should I move to, then, Flygirl?” he asked, tone warming slightly. “We all know that small apartments are hard to come by in Detroit, especially close to work. And I don’t really want to cross half a town of people who may or may not be wanting to kill me on a daily basis before breakfast.” 

Malik shrugged with feigned innocence, highlighting a part of the newspaper screen. 

“I don't know, how about a bigger place? Maybe a ‘spacious two store penthouse’ with five rooms, just down the street?” she said, pushing the screen over to him. Jensen frowned at the open tab of the residential market before he scoffed. 

“What exactly do I do with five rooms? I just need one. And besides, there’s no way in hell I could afford this alone?” 

“Who said anything about alone?” she said nonchalantly. “I have been looking for a new place for me and Frank anyway, and that one’s big enough for all three of us.” 

“For – wait. Are you and Pritchard…?” he began, his expression turning horrified. Malik’s eyes widened. 

“What?! Augh, no! Kissing Pritch is like snogging a cactus, and no, don’t ask, I tried. Both. There was a bet involved,” she added bitterly, rolling her eyes at the change in his face. God, Jensen could be twelve if he wanted to.

“But we are flatmates. Well, in the widest sense of the word. He basically lives at work, and I live in the VTOL, so we see each other early in the morning and late at night, and sometimes on weekends. He cooks dinner, I take care of breakfast because he’s a zombie in the morning. We share the dishes, we watch the games whenever they come up. If he drinks too much I hold his hair. That kind of relationship. It’s cool, and he’s less of an ass if he had a decent night’s sleep and enough coffee to drown a rat in.” She shrugged, watching him closely. 

“I don’t think moving in with Pritchard would be a good idea. I’d give us a week before one of us end up dead or in the trash can, and it probably won’t be me.” 

“Aw, don’t be a spoilsport, Spyboy. Just look at it this way: The place is big enough for all of us, you each get your own rooms, you don’t even have to see one another much. You’re not alone all the time anymore, either. I really don’t like that.” 

She met his shielded gaze without fear, facing his quiet judgement. To her surprise, Jensen lowered his head again, shifting through the advertisement. 

“I’ll think about it.” 

 

____________________________________________

 

Two days later, they visited the penthouse together, and everything went… surprisingly well. Pritchard was in a rare, agreeable mood (probably because Malik had substituted his usual in-office, sluggish coffee with something that looked and tasted a lot more expensive, and seemed to do the trick), and Jensen realized that the idea of not living alone was unexpectedly… nice. They’d be in walking distance of the office, Pritchard could install his security software, and the rooftop even had helipad access. The bedrooms, all located upstairs, were spacious and well-lit, and the biggest room on the lower floor had already been claimed as a shared living room, big enough to house both a comfortable sectional sofa with TV and electronic equipment as well as a generous dining area. The leftover room – smaller and wedged in next to the second bathroom on the lower floor – was still in discussion, the group torn in favour of an office, a huge cabinet for their groceries and gear, or an entire server room. It wasn’t hard to guess who had made the third suggestion.

Still, the penthouse looked good, and judging from the staggered, yet content expression on the men’s faces Malik was rather certain that she’d made the right decision. 

The next day, they all signed the contract. 

 

____________________________________________

 

Moving Jensen’s belongings into the new home was a quick affair. Most of the still packed items were thrown away without even a second glance of the security agent; a great number of his old furniture was given to charity. In the end, Jensen moved with only his desk, his bed, the contents of his wardrobe, a couple of e-books and the items that were strewn across the living room. 

Malik didn’t question his decision as she watched his sour expression while throwing one of the last boxes into the container of the open collection station. He was literally throwing his life away, sans some bits and pieces he held close to his heart. 

She put one hand on his arm as he turned, ready to leave, and felt the faint shudder running through him. He turned his head, gazed into her eyes – really, properly, without the usual barrier he set between himself and the world – and nodded, slowly. 

Time to make new memories. 

____________________________________________

 

Contrary to popular belief, Malik had a clean-cut system in her bedroom. Her personal items filled several boxes, but when Jensen arrived, they were already packed and waiting for his augmented strength near the front door. 

“You’re the strongest, so we decided that you’d do the heavy lifting,” she said cheekily. Before he could protest she opened the fridge, which held a sixpack of Hot Devil and a bottle of whiskey. 

“…AND get to pick the spoils afterwards. Deal?” 

“Deal.” 

 

____________________________________________

 

Jensen was ready to curse his good nature as he carried the (hopefully last!) box of what felt like proper bricks into the waiting car. He had already dragged all of Pritchard’s computer pieces down six flights of stairs, mainly because the elevator was filled with people at this time of day, and he just couldn’t deal with the constant staring at times, and he was really looking forward to the end. 

As he stowed the heavy cardboard carton away in the back of the truck, Pritchard stepped out of the entrance with a plastic box under one arm. He frowned, which was close to his resting expression. 

“Be careful with the books, Jensen,” he chided, coming closer. The augmented man huffed. 

“Books? Don’t tell me you still keep old-fashioned hardcover novels, Francis. I thought I was juggling your collection of stones.” 

The programmer graced him with a raised eyebrow. “Malik collects the stones, mind you. And what’s wrong with books? The smell of paper as you open it, the sound of turning pages? Not that you would understand. I’m still astonished that you can read at all.” 

By now, Jensen wasn’t upset by the jabs and spikes offered by his prickly companion. He simply shrugged it off, eyes travelling to the box. 

“What are you carrying there? Careful, it looks as if it’s at least as heavy as a water bottle. Wouldn’t want you to break your pretty tiny arms.” 

This time it was Pritchard’s turn to ignore the ironic comment. He looked at the box, and one of the rare smiles flitted across his thin lips. 

“That’s Neo.” 

“Neo?” Jensen repeated, stepping forward. Without thinking he activated his eye augmentation, allowing him to see through the thin layer of plastic, sensing heat signatures… belonging to a curled up, purring little thing. He almost staggered. 

“Neo,” Pritchard said with finality. “My cat. You don’t expect me to leave her behind?” 

“Why did you call her Neo is it’s a female?” Jensen asked, feeling slightly dumbfounded. Pritchard had a cat? He cared for another living being? Wow. She was cute, too, from what he could see now – all black, with white spots on her feet and tail and big, green eyes.

“Because he’s a nerd,” Malik supplied, sauntering past the two with beer and whiskey in her hand, “And Trinity sounded too religious for him. Pack up, boys, we’re done. Let’s go home.” 

 

____________________________________________

 

Carrying boxes into a new home was strangely enough less exhausting than getting them out of the old. Still, as darkness had long fallen, and the howl of the sirens in the distance faded into the common nightly backdrop of sound they all knew from Detroit, Jensen was ready to collapse onto the living room couch – probably the only piece of furniture which was already fully set up. By now he didn’t even care if he’s sleep in a cardboard box for the night, he just wanted to sleep for a year. 

He was about to move, but a sudden shock of impossible cold in between his shoulder blades made him yelp and turn around in the duration of a split-second, body already readying itself for defence. He blinked at the sound of laughter as Malik stumbled back, can of Hot Devil between her fingers and arms outstretched in a calming gesture. Pritchard was chuckling quietly, Neo perched on his left arm. 

“Relax, Spyboy, and have a drink on us. We’re done for today, right?”

There was fresh paint on her nose and cheeks, covering the faint traces of red as she beamed up at him. Jensen didn’t need his CASIE-mod to analyse the expression as pure happiness. 

His artificial fingers curled around the can, touching her own hands in the process. She let go easily, watching as he opened the metal lid, taking a swig with his eyes closed, his shoulders relaxing a little. 

Tossing Pritchard another one, she opened her own tin, sitting down on the backrest of the couch and looking over the nightly Detroit. On the floor Frank cursed, dousing himself in froth as he opened his beer too quickly. Neo hopped off his arm with an indignant meow. Jensen laughed, an honest, hoarse sound, a sound he still had to learn anew after all that happened. 

Home, huh? She already liked it. 

____________________________________________

 

During the next weeks, things slowly began to fall into place.

They all changed their addresses on their personal IDs at Sarif Industries. If Sarif noticed - and he always noticed - he didn't comment on it; maybe he appeared just a bit more content than before, giving them all an early evening off together if time allowed and smiling a bit more openly than before. He was still a guarded man, holding his cards close to his chest, but by now he shared the bigger amount of them with his team, trying to make up for mistakes that still lingered between them. And he was changing, too. 

People deserved a second chance, sometimes. One could be surprised at the results: A better future in the making, the sharp turn from a weapon manufacturer to a medical genius. Maybe it would work out. Maybe it would lead to a bright, new age.

 

____________________________________________

 

They all worked on their rooms separate from one another. Not because they didn’t want to help their new-found roommates in general. Instead, the feeling of security, of “their own”, was important to each of them. They were already getting ready to share much with the familiar souls two doors down, but their rooms were hiding places, security blankets and nests they kept for themselves, a spot to shut out the world, even if only for some hours. 

Malik's bedroom had a distinct Hengsha-vibe to it, clearly hinting at her roots. It was mostly coloured in a rich gold, with accents of dark reds and pure, carbon black, and lit with a multitude of finely crafted lamps. She was displaying a small number of airplane and helicopter modelkits, no doubt all made on particular dull days where Sarif had decided that he didn't need her to get anywhere, and a surprising collection of small, chipped stones she had found here and there on missions. Sentimentalities. 

The latest addition to their group, found in her bird's cockpit after the Hengsha crash was slowly beginning to dull, still held the faintest traces of blood. She didn't know if it was hers, Adams, or that of an unfortunate Belltower soldier, but it was a memento for her. 

Pritchard's room stood in sharp contrast to hers. Where Malik liked the trusted pattern of what had been her home for years, he found sole comfort in the sounds and feeling of machinery. His walls displayed framed pictures and even one or two video game posters, and nearly every available surface was packed with something beeping or whirring. His main computer was meticulously taken apart, mounted to a backlit, acrylic structure, and put up on the wall behind his private work desk, equally self-programmed work of art and ambient light source. 

His bed was cluttered with books and harddrives, blankets and pillows. It was a comfortable nest to dive in after a long, stressful day, always with a hoodie crumbled up on one side which doubled as Neo’s daytime bed. The cat was rarely seen outside of Pritchard's reach when he was around, and loved to sleep on top of his three blankets at night, purring her human into slumber. 

And Jensen? His room was probably the oddest. Placed between the other two, it looked almost deserted for a long time. There was a bed and a desk, a small wardrobe which housed both clothes and weapons, and a computer humming away at night, but not much that appeared all too personal. Everything was in order. His sheets were simple, bore no pattern, and were always made in the morning. More often than not, Jensen dozed in the living room, not even touching his own bed. 

Sleep still didn't come easy to him, and the pained voices infiltrating his mind whenever he allowed himself some time alone made sure that it would stay that way. 

Gradually, however, his roommates began to liven up the place without him even noticing. Malik got him a new set of unassembled clocks she left 'accidentally' on his desk, a means to occupy his hands and mind whenever rest eluded him. Pritchard tried hard not to care, but one day there was a wooden box lying on Jensen's bed, containing three sets of difficult, metallic puzzles he couldn't solve for days. The number of trinkets slowly increased, turning the soulless chamber into something honest and personal. 

And one weekend day, when Jensen woke in his bed as the morning sun had already risen, his arms crossed over a worn copy of Pritchard's "Nineteen Eighty Four" and with Malik's handheld game device lying face-up next to his head, he realized that he felt at ease for the first time in months. 

 

____________________________________________


	2. Chapter 2

“You can't be serious,” Pritchard groaned. He held his arms crossed in front of his chest, the perpetual frown on his face deepening a little. “A bathroom needs a mirror. How do you even shave if you don't have one?!”

“I never said that I am against a mirror per se, but the thing in the bathroom is much too big,” Jensen insisted sharply. It was no surprise; they had all been to his apartment before, all seen the mirror smashed into pieces. They knew his rocky relationship with his reflection, leading so far that he even happened to stare at the burnished steel of their fridge with an expression of dread every once in a while, when he felt as if nobody was looking.   
Still, Pritchard wasn't ready to let this go. 

“What do you want me to do, put it down? I don't even think that's possible, it’s built into the wall, and we’d have to renovate the entire bathroom! For God's sake, Jensen, it's a mirror, can't you just get over it?” 

As Jensen was about to ‘get over’ Pritchard with his fist, Malik stuck her head into the room. She looked at the two men with a raised eyebrow. 

“You two having your first domestic in here?” 

“Jensen says we should ditch the bathroom mirror!” Pritchard said, running his hand across his face in a dramatic gesture and ignoring her snide remark with surprising grace. “The entire mirror. The entire WALL!” 

“And I am willing to pay for it, Francis, so it’s not going to be your loss—“ 

“Hey, hold your horses, boys. Just a sec.” 

Without further ado, Malik vanished from the room. From the soung of it she began rummaging through a box, muttering to herself before whooping in success.   
As she returned, she was holding a curtain rail with a broad grin, wiggling it a little. Across her right arm hung the heavy blackout curtain she had wanted to hang up in the living room. 

“Problem solved?” she asked triumphantly as Pritchard and Jensen exchanged a long glance. Leave it to her to think practical. 

 

____________________________________________

 

Not all nights were as easy. 

A recent trip back to Hengsha with the VTOL stirred a memory inside of Malik which she tried hard to forget. She told herself that this had been different, that she only had taken in one of Sarif’s business partners, exchange some handshakes and brilliant smiles, and get him back to Detroit, all without the slightest troubles. There was no gunfire, no rocket hitting her sides, no blood pooling inside her flight suit, making her lightheaded. 

No Adam, fighting tooth and claw to get her back into the air, into safety.

She still woke with a start one night later, taste of copper and salt on her lips as she nearly knocked over her bedside lamp in the effort to turn on the lights. The faint, warm sheen calmed her, a little. Malik didn't have many nightmares - because she was tough, and because she had no time for her brain to play goddamned tricks on her - but if they came, they were a force to be reckoned with. And this one had been cruel, bloody imagines still skidding across her retina. 

She felt nauseous. Took a deep breath, and managed to stand. 

She had to get out. The room was stifling.

Padding across the floor on bare feet, clad only in shorts and a flight academy tee, she was making a beeline for the kitchen. The stairs groaned slightly as she passed them. Decorative woodwork her ass, she hoped Adam and Frank wouldn't wake up. 

To her surprise, there was light in the kitchen. Had she forgotten to turn it off again? Approaching quietly, she pushed open the kitchen door...

...meeting Adam's gaze, surprise evident on his features. Next to him was one of the horrible bright cups she'd gotten for their kitchen, tea still steeping and spreading a smell of chamomile and fennel. 

“Can't sleep either?” he rasped, moving slightly to the side, making room for her on their counter. She should have been surprised to see him here, but, really, she wasn't. Adam's nightmares were something neither she nor Pritchard could imagine, but they both knew well how often they occurred.

“Shit day,” she replied simply, not wanting to explain more yet. Stealing his cup, she took a sip.   
“Urgh. Needs more sugar.”

His crooked smile was all the answer she needed, and if he pressed his shoulder in a little supportive gesture against hers before moving to fetch her the sugar pot, well, she wouldn't tell anyone. 

 

____________________________________________

 

Breakfast was turning into a strangely communal affair. They got up in a surprisingly stable pattern, Jensen usually being the first. He’d open the blinds, welcoming the early morning sun with a frown and a yawn before shuffling towards the kitchen, setting the coffee machine to brewing. A shower followed, quiet and conducted with near-military efficiency. The curtain in front of the mirror was always drawn shut. 

Jensen shaved and dressed in silence, his mind already getting ready for work. He’s only aim for the kitchen after his internal timer went off, alerting him with the smell of coffee wafting up from the kitchen. Even with all his augments and his superior Sentinel Health System, there was no better liquid life force than a cup of highly sugared coffee with just a dash of cream in the morning. 

Most of the days he would hear Malik in the shower while he set out plates, cups and glasses; three sets each. They had never spoken about it, never discussed shared breakfast, but, like many things, it had simply… happened to them. He was just finished with his first cup of coffee when the upstairs bathroom door opened and the quick pitter-patter of bare feet on the staircase announced Faridah’s presence. 

Her eyes would always light up at the prepared table, no matter how often she’d seen it. Since Jensen’s cooking skills were less than sub-par she’d usually meander through the kitchen, whisking and frying eggs or preparing French toast for the lot. Around that time, the radio would be switched on, too, playing the usual, jazzy tunes of the morning shows. 

It would be about twenty more minutes until Neo appeared on the steps, loudly demanding a plate of cat food to be placed next to the table. Pritchard was the last to follow, always looking as if he hadn’t slept at all. He was usually unable to reply to anything else than simple “yes” or “no”-questions, at least until his body was beginning to digest the strong coffee Jensen would make for him (without mentioning it, ever.) 

His flatmates loved to tease him in the morning. Good thing it usually went over his head. More often than once, Pritchard fell asleep on the table, briskly shaken awake by a smug Malik. 

He’d only return to his usual, snarky self after the third cup of coffee and a quick stroll through the message boards on his tablet. It was probably the constant presence of trolls that fired him up and amused his companions in addition, listening to his near-incoherent mumble while Neo weaved in between their legs, looking for unoccupied hands, ready for a petting.

And as things went, all those simple things were turning out to be a pleasure. 

 

____________________________________________

 

While he was absolutely no help during breakfast preparations, Pritchard was a surprisingly good cook, often taking care of dinner. He griped that this was mostly due to the fact that he did neither want to die of food poisoning anytime soon, nor live the rest of his life on a diet of cereal and beer, but secretly, he seemed to enjoy his fate. 

Sometimes, Malik and Jensen tried to help. Usually, he shooed them out of the kitchen quickly.

And dinner would be mostly good, too; a lively gathering around the table, sometimes watching a movie in the background, more often than not ranting about their day. Well, Malik and Pritchard ranting; Jensen usually just chuckled drily at their tales of idiotic guests who suddenly realized they were airsick after all, or imbecile co-workers unable to switch on their own computer without causing half a meltdown. He always said that he didn’t have much to tell – security at Sarif Industries was much calmer now that everything was returning back to normal. 

If this was actually the case or he just wasn’t ready to talk freely, like he had done before – a long time ago, in another life, it seemed – they weren’t sure. They didn’t care, either, as they dug into their dinner while the sun has long set on the horizon and Eliza Cassan was cheerfully reading them the news on the Picus Channel. It was just right, the way it was. 

 

____________________________________________

 

There were good days, and bad days. 

On the good days, they spent time together in the morning. They laughed, they went off to work around the same time, weaving their way down the street in several minutes, splitting up once they reached the office. Later they’d meet at home, eat together, spend their downtime together or apart, whatever suited them. Those days were bright, and good, and not easy to get used to, but – ultimately – just what they had been hoping for. 

And then, there were the bad days. When they would wake from the stench of gunfire or ashen smoke. Where the police would seal off their street as more riots broke out, more cries for what the common man deemed justice and what was, in fact, nothing but blood on the ground. On those bad days they’d take the VTOL to work or just run past rioters as quickly as possible, sometimes undetected, sometimes… well. 

They all refused to even consider those days. 

“You think it’ll ever stop?” Pritchard asked in his trademark annoyed fashion, lying face-up on the couch after another long, stressful day, ending in a turbulent run through the turmoil deep below their windows and with several broken ribs – although those were on the accounts of the rioters, not them. Jensen didn’t go easy on anyone getting in their way. 

“Maybe not anytime soon,” Malik replied, looking up from her book. Across from her Jensen appeared oblivious to their discussion, remaining motionless on the chair and meticulously assembling pieces of his latest clock. “Why? You already tired of playing superhero?” she quipped.

“Superhero, me? Forget it. I’m a hacker, I’m not… Superman.” 

“Super-Snake,” Malik replied, deadpan. “Winding his way into EVERYTHING. Super-stealthy, super-sneaky, Super-Snake!“

“…One day, I will poison your coffee.” 

“Awww, you’d do that to your trusted sidekicks, Fly-Girl and Spy-Boy? Who’d support you on your intense and emotional adventures if not us?” 

Malik didn’t manage to evade the pillow in time. So much for the superb reflexes of a sidekick. 

 

____________________________________________


End file.
